The Chronicles of Mary Mayweather: Resurrection
by Rosenn Rae
Summary: WIP - Read author profile first. Sam and Dean head to Georgia to investigate a spirit known as Mary Mayweather. Sam-centric, OC pairing, plus Sam and Dean brotherly love.
1. Prologue

Chapter 1

Prologue

[_Lollipop_, byThe Chordettes]

It was a warm summer afternoon in Peachtree, Georgia. The air was thick with humidity and the sun bathed the town in a golden glow. Classic cars sauntered up and down the main road, shining with fresh paint and metal finishes. Tiny shops sat in neat rows, their doors open and welcoming to customers. At the end of the street was a church, an old wooden structure that had been there since the town's founding. A simple stained glass window on the front of the church depicted the town's patron saint, Nicholas.

Standing in the doorway to the church was a woman. She was young, in her early twenties. She smiled warmly as several children ran past her and down the steps of the church.

"Be careful!" she called after them. Several of them turned to wave good-bye to her, and she waved happily back. A priest came up beside her. He laid a hand on her arm.

"We are blessed to have you, Mary," he observed.

Mary fondly watched the kids walk away, headed home. "It's my pleasure, Father John. My heart is here with the church and the children. I love teaching them."

"You should go home," Father John advised, "I'm sure your mother has dinner waiting." Mary smiled and shook her head slightly.

"I have a few things to finish up here. I'm going to remain here for a few hours," Mary told him. "Anyways, Mother's at her book club tonight."

The priest sighed. "You're staying to clean up the chapel again, aren't you?" Mary blushed slightly, knowing she had been caught.

"The floor needs mopping, and the pews need washed," she reasoned. "The candlesticks could use some shining as well, and—" Father John held up his hand before she could go further.

"Whatever brings peace to you," he agreed. "You're an angel to do so."

Mary smiled shyly at the praise. Father John bid her good-bye and headed off to his nearby residence. She took another look around the town, smiling to herself, before turning and retreating back into the church.


	2. Investigation

Chapter 2

The Investigation Begins

"Can I help you?"

Sam turned to face an elderly woman with a broad smile. She was a good foot and a half shorter than him, so he found himself having to look down to make eye contact. "Hello, ma'am. I'm Detective Sam Johnson."

Next to him, Dean flashed a badge, not showing it long enough for the woman to see that it was fake. "And I'm Detective Dean Walters. We're from Atlanta. Could you tell us where we can find a Miss Mary Mayweather?"

A shadow of doubt fell across the woman's face. Sam gave her a reassuring smile. "Not to worry, ma'am. She's not in trouble. We just want to ask her a few questions."

The elderly woman pursed her lips a little, tilting her head just slightly in confusion. "Well I'm not sure you'll have much luck with her. But you can find her at Saint Nicholas's up the street." She motioned in that direction.

Dean nodded to her. "Thanks for your help."

She shrugged and bid them good-bye, heading back to the secretarial desk she was stationed at. Sam followed Dean out of the city hall, climbing down the steps.

Peachtree, Georgia. Population eight hundred sixty-two. In Dean's words, 'good ole Hicksville'. It was a quiet town, somewhere in the center of the state, with only two stoplights and one main road. Shops and public buildings lined the street. Smaller roads branched out from it, dotted with old houses. It, like many old settlements in the South, had been here for at least a century. Acres upon acres of farmland surrounded the town, with farming being the main industry here. Sam grimaced as he remembered the car ride here, nothing but miles of wheat fields to look at and only Dean's off-key singing to listen to.

Beside him, Dean cracked his knuckles. "Looks like we're headed to church."

He started down the sidewalk, and Sam followed. The church—Saint Nicholas—was the only one in town. They had passed it on the way in and could see it from city hall. Sam kept pace behind his older brother as they walked past several small shops.

Townsfolk meandered along with them. Mothers with children in tow busied themselves with errands. Old women strolled along together, chatting idly. An elderly man hunched over the hood of his antique car, shining it with a thin rag. The Impala sat just beyond him, parked on the side of the road. Sam knew his brother was keeping an eye on it as he passed, his baby never far from his mind.

They reached Saint Nicholas after a minute of walking. It was simple: a small white chapel with a tall bell tower, a rectory attached to its back, the whole building surrounded by a fresh, green manicured lawn. The two brothers walked up the path to the front steps, ascending them and walking inside.

Sam paused to look around. He stood in the front foyer of the church. _It's called the narthax_, he remembered. There wasn't much to it, just a small table with bibles piled on it, a billboard covered in various flyers, and a wall full of parishioners' pictures. Double doors led into the main hall. Dean was already passing through them, so Sam followed.

Pews lined the left and right sides of the hall, forming a single aisle down the center. There wasn't much up front, just an intricate cloth thrown over a large altar and a tall golden cross standing off to the side. A priest stood in front of the altar, lighting a candle. He turned when he heard Sam and Dean approaching.

"Hello, gentlemen!" he greeted with a smile. He was young, maybe in his thirties, and wearing a black shirt and pants, with the white clerical collar strapped around his neck. The priest offered his hand, which Sam and Dean shook in turn.

"I am Father Bradley. You must be new in town. How can I help you two?"

Dean spoke first. "I'm Detective Dean Walters. This is Detective Sam Johnson. We're looking for Mary Mayweather."

Father Bradley looked confused. "What for?"

Sam stepped up beside Dean. "She's not in trouble. We were just hoping to ask her a few questions."

The priest's eyebrows scrunched together. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

Sam could sense Dean growing impatient beside him. "Look, if you could just take us to her, we'll take care of the talking."

Father Bradley gave Dean a scrutinizing look. Then realization dawned on his face. "Oh… I see. You must be one of those ghost hunters."

Dean stared. "What?"

Father Bradley shrugged a shoulder. "Far be it for me to question your manner of living. But if you're going to try to 'talk' with Mary, I would ask you to please respect our church and the patrons."

Sam spoke up before Dean could. He knew when his older brother was confused, he had a tendency to lash out. They would get nowhere if Dean started bitching at a priest. He decided to cut to the chase. "Could you… take us to Mary?"

The priest nodded and headed down the aisle, back the way they came. Dean threw a glance at Sam, but he just shrugged. He had no idea what Father Bradley was talking about either.

Back in the narthex, Father Bradley stopped. He motioned to the wall of the parishioners' pictures. Sam glanced at the priest, then walked forward a few steps. He looked closely at the portrait the priest was pointing to. In the center of the wall was a framed black-and-white photo of Saint Nicholas, although it was a different building than the one here now. In front of the church, a young woman stood amongst a group of children, her arms draped affectionately over their shoulders. They smiled broadly at the camera. Under the picture was the inscription, 'Saint Nicholas Bible Class, 1957'.

Dean's eyebrow shot sky-high. "_That's_ Mary Mayweather?"

Father Bradley nodded. "That poor girl. It's a tragedy that she was torn away so young."

Dean plastered on his best _I totally know what you're talking about_ face. "Yeah, a tragedy. Listen, just for the sake of Detective Johnson here—he's a little scatterbrained." Sam tore himself away from looking at the photo long enough to glare at Dean. His brother just ignored him. "Could you tell us everything you know about her, including the, uh, tragedy?"

Father Bradley scratched his head a bit. "Well, Father John was the priest here back then. He knew Mary personally. Before his passing, he served as my mentor throughout vocation." The priest's face took on a pensive look. "Father John talked about Mary all the time. She was a wonderful girl. Full of life, and love, and always willing to help. She taught bible school here at the church. That's her with the students." Bradley referred to the picture again. He sighed.

"Her death was completely unexpected. It happened the summer after that photo was taken. Father John said he retired to his home in the afternoon, and left Mary to close up the church. A few hours later, the whole place was ablaze. The fire burned the old church straight to the ground."

"So, Mary died in the fire." Dean surmised. Bradley nodded.

"They found her body?" Sam questioned.

"No, no." Bradley shook his head gently. "Everything was burnt to ashes within an hour. The firemen said they had never seen a blaze so strong or so fast. The only thing left was the bell. Even that wasn't in good condition."

"The bell?"

"The one from the old church tower." Bradley pointed at the photo of Mary. On the doorstep of the church, was a large golden bell, the kind used to alert students that class was about to start. "Mary rang it every day to call the children. After the fire, Father John had it melted and reformed into that cross there. He christened the new church in her honor."

Sam glanced back down the aisle to the front of the church. To the right of the altar was the tall gold cross, six feet high and three feet wide.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about Mary, or about the fire?" Dean prompted. "Anything strange that comes to your mind?"

Father Bradley looked at him quizzically, but answered nonetheless. "Nothing that I can think of. I myself don't believe in all the hype about ghosts and the like. I believe that once a person has died, their soul ascends to heaven forever. Father John thought that ghosts exist. He thought Mary was still here in the church. I think her memory is strong in this parish, but I don't believe she's a ghost or something." He looked up as he heard the tolling of bells. "That's my cue. I'm off to city hall to preside over the pancake dinner. You're welcome to join. Good luck to you two. I only ask that you be respectful of our church."

Sam shook the priest's hand. "Of course, Father, thank you."

With a wave, the priest walked out of the church. Sam took another long look at the picture of Mary Mayweather. "She's dead…"

Dean wiped a hand over his face. "Yeah. Don't that put a damper on things?"

"What now?"

Dean shrugged. "No clue. But I could use some pancakes." He rubbed his hands together greedily. Sam sighed.

"Sure, why not."


	3. Research

Chapter 3

More Questions than Answers

They sat in the basement of city hall a half hour later. Rows of tables had been set up, and various townsfolk wandered in and out. Father Bradley was manning the kitchen, handing out pancakes with a smile. Dean regarded him for a moment, then returned to his plate of pancakes.

"I dunno, Sammy." Dean spoke around a mouthful of pancake. Sam grimaced. Dean didn't care. "I feel like we're missing something here. How are we supposed to get help from a dead girl?"

Sam was flipping through the pages of Dad's journal. "She could be a ghost."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Come on, man, you know there's no such thing as ghosts."

A small smile graced Sam's face. Dean grinned. Success. One point to the awesome big brother. He tapped his fork on the journal. "Any luck?"

Sam had stopped halfway through and was now scrutinizing it. He sighed. "Nothing more than before."

Sam leaned back in his chair. He twisted the book around so Dean could read it. The same text was still scrawled across the top of page. Just a single name and place written in Dad's sloppy handwriting: _Mary Mayweather, Peachtree. _Below it, filling the rest of the paper, were various signs and symbols. Some Dean recognized as ancient angelic symbols. Others he had no idea about. In the middle of the page was a sketch of an angel—a crappy one, since Dad had never been a good artist—but it was circled several times, indicating its importance.

Sam took a large bite of his pancake. "Maybe we have this all wrong."

"Whaddya mean?" Dean belched and rubbed his stomach happily. "You think Mary's still around, maybe scaring up some people? Dad could have been making a note to deal with her another time."

"I guess, but that doesn't make much sense either. This isn't exactly vengeful spirit material." Sam clenched his jaw. "I wish Dad would have told us more."

Dean closed the journal, eager to keep the conversation off his father. Sam and Dad had never been on good terms. "Maybe he told someone else? Ellen?"

Sam shook his head. "No, he wouldn't have talked about this kind of thing with her. What about Bobby?"

Dean considered it and nodded. "Sounds about a good as chance as any." He stood and scooped up his now-empty plate. "Let's make a call."

Outside, Dean got into the Impala and pulled out his phone. Sam entered from the opposite side, settling into the passenger's seat. Dean punched in a few numbers and put his phone on speaker.

It took only half a ring. A gruff voice answered. "What is it?"

Dean grinned. Bobby Singer was never one for pleasantries. He cut right to the point, something Dean loved about him. "Hey, Bobby! Got a minute?"

"Always do for you boys." There it was, that little soft spot Bobby had for them.

"Ya ever hear of Peachtree, Georgia?"

There was a long pause. When Bobby replied, his tone was different. A little tenser. "What about it?"

Dean exchanged a glance with his brother. "Well, we were flipping through Dad's journal and we found a reference to Mary Mayweather. You know her?"

"No." The way Bobby answered made it seem like he didn't know her, but had at least heard of her. Dean continued anyways.

"Dad pegged her with a lot of ancient angelic stuff. Sam thought she might have been one of Dad's contacts, you know, the ones he turned to when he needed more info on a case? So we come down here to talk to her, and we find out she's dead. Been dead for fifty years."

Bobby interrupted. "You boys are in Peachtree?"

Sam was looking incredulously at the phone. He spoke up. "Yeah, why?"

There was an even longer pause this time. Dean thought he could hear shuffling on the other side of the line, the sound of a chair being moved and feet walking on a wooden floor.

Bobby spoke again, but he was curt and commanding. "I'm coming down there. I'll arrive by tomorrow night."

Sam's face was screwed up in confusion. Dean would have laughed if he wasn't feeling the same way. "Bobby, what's this all about?"

A door closing and an engine starting could be heard. Bobby spoke tersely. "I'll explain when I get there. Don't do anything stupid until I do."

Bobby hung up and left Dean and Sam staring at the phone in bewilderment. Dean threw up his hands. "What the hell was that about?"

Sam shrugged. "Not sure. But we could do some more research while he's on his way. We should go back to the church." Dean snorted. No way, no how.

"I've had enough of church for one day, thank you." He put the phone in his pocket and started up the Impala's engine. "I dunno about you, but there was a bar I saw on the way in that is calling my name."

Sam frowned. "Dean…"

"You heard Bobby." He turned up the music and grinned. "No doing anything stupid. I think having a nice cold beer and hustling some pool is easy enough. No harm with that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll see you back at the motel."

He got out of the car and closed the passenger side door. Dean rolled down the window and leaned over to call out to Sam. "I'm gonna try to score myself a piece of Southern hospitality, so don't wait up!"

Sam waved his hand dismissively and walked off towards the church. Dean grinned and threw the Impala into drive, calling after his brother.

"See ya!"


End file.
